Clear to Lift (2 page)

“Roger that. Stand by,” Beanie says.

I can't see Boomer, because I'm looking out my right window, but his disappointed stare bores into the back of my skull. Will and the victim below remain out of sight, as well. Instead, I focus on a deformation in the rock face and hold there. If I keep the helicopter in this relative position to the rock, we should remain clear. Should …

Bracingly cold air sweeps into the cockpit when Beanie opens the cabin door, doing a thorough job of penetrating the thin material of my flight suit. Even though I'm wearing long underwear, it doesn't make a bit of difference. The early-season winter storm that dropped ten inches of new snow on the Sierra Nevada yesterday also brought single-digit temperatures with it.

“Okay, ma'am, Hap's at the door. Clear to exit?”

“Clear!”

“Hap's exiting the aircraft,” Beanie calls. “He's on the skids. Steady right there. I'm goin' up hot mic.”

He'll have to. He'll need to be hands-free on the mic to do all the rope handling and hoisting.

The wind buffeting. There it is again. It was somewhat negligible when we were flying at speed away from the rocks, but when you're attempting to hold a hover in a confined area, tiny wind gusts seem to morph into something convincingly more violent.

“Looking good on the gauges,” Boomer says. “Nice and steady on the controls.”

Hap stands on the skids—our landing gear that looks like skis—facing the helicopter's open door. He wears his climbing harness, to which a rappel device is attached, and a rope runs through this, secured on one end to the anchoring system in the helicopter, while the rest of the rope hangs far below.

“Hap's ready on the rappel, ma'am.”

“Clear to jump,” I say.

“Copy. Man's off the skids!”

Hap leaps backward and slides several feet down the rope to arrive below the skids. From there, he lowers himself the roughly fifty feet to Will and the first victim.

“Hap's adjacent the victim,” Beanie says. “Starting his swing.”

“Copy,” I say, imagining Hap kicking his legs out, like you would on a playground swing, to get the rope moving back and forth, so he can move into a position where he can reach the rocks.

“Swingin' good now!” Beanie says, although the call really isn't necessary, as we can all feel the helicopter rocking.

Come on, Hap. You can do this. Please do this.

As Beanie makes his calls, informing the crew of Hap's progress, I blink my right eye, trying to clear the drop of sweat—
sweat?
—that just dripped there. It irritates, stings a bit, but I can't move my hands from the controls to wipe it.

“Ma'am, I'm gettin' a negative hand signal from Hap!”

“What?”
Oh, no.
“Can't he—?”

“No, ma'am. He can't reach the victim! We're gonna have to slide closer, if we're gonna make this happen!”

Closer …

“Sir?” I ask, reaching for a lifeline.

“You got this, Alison. You haven't budged since we started. I know you can do it.”

I grind my teeth, and a steady trickle of sweat—oh yeah, it's running now—slides down the back of my neck.

“Ma'am?” Beanie asks.

Deep breath in.
Oh … all right. Shit.
“Call me right.”

“Okay, ma'am, you're clear to slide right eight,” Beanie says, using the number of feet to the stopping point he's chosen. “Clear to slide right five, right four, three, two, one, steady. Steady right there, ma'am. We've got two feet of clearance at the blade tips.”

“Copy,” I say, my jaw throbbing because it's clenched so tight.

Two feet from blade tip to solid rock. Sweat-inducing for sure, and by far the most difficult rescue scenario I've faced in my short tenure with this squadron.

“And only one foot of clearance at the tail,” Beanie continues. “Do
not
move the tail rotor right.”

Gulp. “Copy.”

The icy chill I felt earlier disappears as I become the literal embodiment of the phrase “You're in the hot seat.” Perspiration blooms. I try not to think about the men in this aircraft who are entrusting their lives to me. Trusting I won't waver. Trusting I won't move the cyclic those tiny few millimeters to the right that would send us smashing into the side of this mountain. Trusting I'll be able to manipulate the rudder pedals in time, if hit by a downdraft, before the tail spins. My grip tightens on the controls, my body rigid from the toes up.

“Hap's at the victim,” Beanie says, continuing the play-by-play. “Hover's lookin' good. No rise, no drift. Nice and steady, ma'am.”

“Still good on the gauges,” Boomer says. “You're a rock on the controls.”

“Tying off the belay!” Beanie says, huffing. On hot mic, you hear everything. Grunting, breathing, and the occasional stress-induced epithet. “Belay line is tied. Lowering the litter. Nice and steady on the hover, ma'am. Lookin' good.”

As Beanie lowers the litter on the hoist cable, Hap is able to tug on the trail line below, keeping it taut so the litter doesn't swing. The litter is oriented vertically to match the position of the victim. This way, Hap and Will can slide the litter behind the victim and keep him in an upright position while strapping him in.

I blink continually to keep the rock deformation in focus. The longer I stare at it, the more the eyes play tricks. From where I sit, I have no reference to a straight horizon. So easy to drift without a horizon.…

Damn it.
My hands, slick with sweat, are slipping inside my gloves.

The wind gust hits, and I'm already pressing right pedal when Beanie's oh-so-calm voice comes through my helmet. “Pivot the nose easy right, ma'am. That's it. Still a foot of clearance at the tail. Nice and steady. Hap's loading the man in the litter. Stand by.”

I start to wonder if I might draw blood, gnawing as I am on the inside of my cheek. My head pounds, straining from the concentration.
Keep it steady, Ali. You've got this.

“Nice and steady, ma'am,” Beanie calls. “Man's in the litter. Bringing tension in the hoist. We have a thumbs-up. Victim's on the way up … he's halfway up … he's at the skids. Stand by. Bringing the litter in.…”

Hap remains on the rock below, still secured to the helicopter by his rappel rope and the belay line, as Beanie hauls the litter into the helicopter. After the victim is secure inside, Beanie will send the hoist down to get Hap, which means I only need to hold the helicopter in this tenuous position just a few more minutes.

“Shit!” Beanie shouts. “The guy's not breathing! No pulse! We gotta go ASAP!”

Shit!
Hap is still fifty feet below us.

“Hap, the victim just crashed!” Boomer says. “Strap in, Doc, you're goin' for an e-ticket ride!”

“Ma'am, you're clear to slide left! Starting CPR!”

“Copy, sliding left!”

I sweep the cyclic to the left as Hap hangs on tight, attached to the ropes below us. He'll “fly” like this all the way to the hospital, because we have no easy way to bring him up.

“… and twelve and thirteen and fourteen and fifteen…,” Beanie huffs as he counts out chest compressions. “… twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…”

“Jack, we're gone,” Boomer reports. “The guy went into cardiac arrest. Be back for the second guy shortly.”

“Mono County copies.”

“Mammoth Hospital, Rescue Seven,” I say.

“Rescue Seven, Mammoth, go ahead.”

“Mammoth, we've got a thirty-five-year-old man who was ice climbing and hit by rockfall,” I say. “He was caught by his rope when he fell. Awake and alert when we got to him, complained of no feeling in his legs. While hoisting him up, he went into cardiac arrest. We've initiated CPR. Inbound. ETA four minutes.”

“… fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven…”

And then to Will, “Whiskey One, Rescue Seven, over.”

“Go ahead, Rescue Seven.”

“Be advised, victim stopped breathing, and we've initiated CPR. En route to Mammoth Hospital.”

“Rescue Seven, Whiskey One copies. Climbing down to second victim now.”

I stretch my fingers, while still holding the controls, in an effort to relieve the tension. My toes remain numb, even though the rest of my body is soaked in sweat.

But who am I to complain? I peer around my cockpit seat to view Beanie in the cabin. He's hunched over the victim, arms locked and straight, the model of concentration, banging out chest compressions. Sweat drips from his face, even though the main cabin door remains wide open, the grunts and huffs ringing loud and clear.

“… ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six…”

 

2

“All right, Alison, what's my heading?” Boomer asks as our bright orange helicopter lifts from Mammoth Hospital to fly to Naval Air Station Fallon, Nevada, home to our squadron—the navy's premier search and rescue squadron, the Longhorns.

We're flying home after safely delivering the second climber to the hospital. When we arrived with him, Beanie received a hero's welcome. It turns out that, owing to the CPR he performed in flight, he saved the first climber's life. Technically, it's all in a day's work for us, but still.
Major
kudos for Beanie.

We shut down just long enough to get our litter back, and now we're airborne, and Boomer is asking directions, even though he already knows the answer. A legend in the U.S. Navy's search and rescue community, Boomer knows the extended area around Fallon like the back of his hand. It's a mystery to all as to how he's been able to finagle three tours of duty here. But it's even more of a mystery—to me, anyway—why you would want to.

I've cursed my detailer daily for sending me to this godforsaken outpost of a navy base, located in the Middle of Nowhere Dust and Salt Flats, Nevada, to serve as a station search and rescue pilot—career suicide in the navy helicopter community. But while I lament, the local sheriffs rejoice. They rely on our team and its technical expertise to execute the most difficult mountain rescues.

I exhale loudly, keying the mic to ensure Boomer hears my exasperation, as I pull the map from its case. “Sir, we could just plug the coordinates into the GPS. It would make it a lot easier.”

“Wha—?” Boomer turns his head to look at me directly, the decal on the front of his helmet now clearly visible—a cowboy on a bucking horse, worn with Wyoming alumni pride. “Hear you nothing that I say, young one? How long have you been here now? Three months? Four?”

I roll my eyes, a gesture becoming far too commonplace when I'm around Boomer.

“For the hundredth time, all you need is a map and your eyeballs. Good god, what are they teaching you new pilots anyway?”

“I'm not young; I'm twenty-
eight.
And I'm not a new pilot. I've been an aircraft commander, a maintenance check pilot. I've got more than fifteen hundred hours—”

“Twenty-anything is a
baby
in my book. And as far as piloting, you're a new
breed.
”

“It's worse cuz she's from sixties, sir,” Beanie says.

Beanie refers to the H-60 Seahawk helicopter—the navy's finest. It does everything—antisubmarine warfare, cargo lift, special ops—all modern, all new. Beanie would know, since he's flown in them, too.

“No doubt,” Boomer says. “Hell, the pilots don't even have to fly anymore. Fuckin' glass cockpits, autopilot, auto-everything.” He lets out a practiced huff. “How you came out of an H-Sixty squadron with
your
stick and rudder skills is still a mystery to me.”

I guess the mysteries run all the way around.

Reluctantly, I run my finger across the map, now spread on my lap. Fallon lies to the north and east of Mammoth Lakes, a drive that would take close to three hours. But in a helicopter moving at over twice the speed of a car, and tracking as the crow flies, it will take us about sixty minutes.

“Sir, your heading is zero one zero. And sir, they still teach us how to fly,” I add, in defense of my fellow H-60 pilots.

“Bullshit. It's an aviation catastrophe. They're training their future drone pilots is what they're doing.”

I shake my head, knowing I will never win this argument, one that only adds salt to the wound of this assignment. I
should
be back in the H-60 community, as an instructor pilot now, at the very least, well on my way to ticking off all the checks in the boxes required for future command of a squadron.

This
was not the plan. Due to rotten luck and unfortunate timing, when I completed my tour at my last squadron, this billet opened in Fallon. And if you've been siphoned off here, forget it. Dreams of command? Gone. But I still cling to hope. My detailer in Washington, D.C., is actively looking for a way to transfer me early. If I can, I won't fall too far behind my H-60 counterparts, and maybe, just maybe, I'll still have a chance at command someday.

“But, damn, what you did today…,” Boomer says.

“Was so far outside the rules of safe and responsible flying—”

“Whatever. You were saving lives.”

“But—”

“But nothing.”

I throw up my hands, turning my focus to the map instead—best to just block Boomer out—as we move up the eastern flank of the Sierra, following Highway 395 north. The clouds have lifted considerably since this morning, allowing a clear view as I raise my head to check our position against local landmarks. My gaze settles on the glacially pristine waters of a high mountain lake, one I've never seen before. Eyes widening, I absorb one of the most spectacular sights I think I've ever seen.

Jagged mountain peaks, draped in white, rise from the lake on all sides, forming a rugged amphitheater. The lower slopes are thick with pine, and the lake, clear as a window, projects the reflection of the surrounding mountains—an upside-down view of a winter wonderland, just like you read about in the storybooks.